A couple of weeks ago, daughter Kareema took the picture above of the witch hazel blooming in the side yard. You can hear the flower pod pop open if you are standing near the shrub at the right moment.
She took this one today. We had a heavy frost on Sunday morning that caused most of the remaining leaves to fall off their trees. (Neighbor Mike probably is not happy with the winds we've had after that, which blew a good third of my leaves into his yard. Mike cut down all the trees in his yard, including my favorite, a ginkgo, several years ago because he hates leaves. I feel so sorry for the wind-deposit into his yard...not!)
I noticed how brown and withered the leaves are this morning, and was reminded of Robert Frost's poem, "Reluctance," which follows:
I noticed how brown and withered the leaves are this morning, and was reminded of Robert Frost's poem, "Reluctance," which follows:
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question “Whither?”
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question “Whither?”
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
...
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
American poet
(c) 2009 photos by Kareema Griest, text Martha McLemore
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